and of justice to whom such considerations
appeal with tragic force. They feel that moral ideals have arisen only
to mock us, and to put us into hopeless antagonism to the world in
which we live. In the rude play of force, many things have been
developed that are useful in our struggle for existence. But one faculty
has developed that is destined to be our undoing,--it is Conscience.
Natural history does not give any satisfactory account of it. It runs
counter to our other tendencies. It makes us miserable just when we are
getting the advantage of others. Now, getting the advantage of others we
had understood was the whole of the exciting game of life. To plot for
this has marvelously sharpened human wit. But Conscience, just at the
critical moment, cries "For shame!" It is an awkward situation. Not only
the rules of the game, but the game itself, is called in question.

As a consequence, many conscientious persons lose all the zest of
living. The existing world seems to them brutal, its order, tyranny; its
morality, organized selfishness; its accepted religion, a shallow
conventionality. In such a world as this, the good man stands like a
gladiator who has suddenly become a Christian. He is overwhelmed with
horror at the bloody sports, yet he is forced into the arena and must
fight. That is his business, and he cannot rise above it.

I cannot, myself, take such a gloomy view of the interesting little
planet on which I happen to find myself. I take great comfort in the
thought that the world is still unfinished, and that what we see lying
around us is not the completed product, but only the raw material. And
this consolation rises into positive cheer when I learn that there is a
chance for us to take a hand in the creative work. It matters very
little at this stage of the proceedings whether things are good or bad.
The question for us is, What is the best use to which we can put them?
We are not to be bullied by facts. If we don't like them as they are, we
may remould them nearer to our heart's desire. At least we may try.

Here is my bayonet. A scientific gentleman, seeing it lying on my
hearth, might construct a very pretty theory about its owner. A bayonet
is made to stab with. It evidently implies a stabber. To this I could
only answer, "My dear sir, do not look at the bayonet, look at me. Do I
strike you as a person who would be likely to run you through, just
because I happen to have the conveniences to do it wi